Last Light

By CJ Lyons

New York Times–Bestselling Author: “Combine Dirty Harry with a loving wife and mother and you might end up with Lucy Guardino.” —RT Book Reviews

Lucy has always seen herself as a normal Pittsburgh soccer mom who happened to have a job chasing the worst of the worst. But after a violent predator targets her family and she’s injured, Lucy sacrifices her career with the FBI in order to keep her family safe.

What is she now that she’s no longer a FBI Special Agent? She ponders the question as she begins her new job with the Beacon Group, a private consulting firm that specializes in cold cases and bringing justice to forgotten victims. Lucy fears she’s traded being a kick-ass law enforcement officer for being a civilian mother hen shepherding a team of amateurs.

Her fears appear justified when she’s partnered with TK O’Connor, a former Marine MP struggling with her transition to life back home, and sent to rural Texas to investigate a case that’s more than cold—it’s already been closed, with the killers behind bars for the past twenty-nine years. But who really killed Lily Martin, her infant daughter, and husband? Why was an entire family targeted for annihilation? And what price will Lucy pay for exposing a truth people will kill to keep buried?

“Taut . . . Readers will eagerly look forward to Lucy’s next outing.” —Publishers Weekly

Praise for CJ Lyons and her Thrillers with Heart:

“A high stakes adventure with dire consequences.” —Steve Berry, New York Times–bestselling author of The Kaiser’s Web

“A compelling new voice . . . I love how the characters come alive on every page.” —Jeffery Deaver, New York Times–bestselling author of The Never Game  

“Everything a great thriller should be—action packed, authentic, and intense.” — Lee Child, #1 New York Times–bestselling author of the Jack Reacher novels

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781939038418

Book preview

Chapter One

Abilene, Texas, present day

---

David Ruiz hated hospitals. Had vowed when he returned from his final assignment in Afghanistan—the one that left him half dead and the soldiers he was embedded with all dead—that he’d avoid hospitals at all cost.

It wasn’t the smells or sights or memories of white-coated ghosts tending to young men who were suddenly mangled apparitions of their former glory-selves. Wasn’t even the blood—hell, he’d worked the crime beat in Baltimore while finishing J-school. Blood was an old friend, meant a better story.

He pulled his dusty Ford Escape into Abilene’s Mercy Medical Center’s parking lot. Hunched over the steering wheel, he stared through the bug-splattered windshield up at the five-story glass and concrete building. It sat at an angle, two wings stretching out from a central hub. He guessed some architect had sold them on the design, probably thought it looked like angel wings opened wide to offer comfort and solace.

Only problem was the weathered concrete and glass tinted against the Texas sun created more of a feeling of oppression and despair. Abandon hope, all ye who enter, he thought as he climbed out of the SUV.

This was why he hated hospitals. They stole your free will; relegated you to a number housed in a database; told you what to do, when to do it, worse than any Army drill instructor; all in the name of providing a chance to live. Offering hope that your life wasn’t fucked up beyond repair.

But it was all just a crapshoot. A game of existential roulette. And behind their masks and arrogance, the doctors knew that. Otherwise, why the hell would he be walking across this asphalt parking lot made sticky by the Texas sun, alive when he shouldn’t be?

He pushed through the glass doors, air conditioning rushing at him like a slap in the face from a woman who’d held an icy drink in her hand. Stood for a moment to get his bearings, taking in the scents that all the antiseptic in the world couldn’t hide, noting the large cross hanging above the receptionist desk, the quiet hush of the empty foyer.

And fought to shake off the feeling that there was someone at his back, ready to ambush him. He stepped forward, surprised at how much the simple act wrung him out. If he couldn’t find the courage to face the baby-cheeked old lady at the desk, how the hell was he going to make it to his destination?

His steps were a stumbling shuffle, hardly the confident stride of a twenty-nine-year-old investigative reporter who’d seen the worst the world had to offer.

At least he thought he had. Damn, he hated hospitals. Almost as much as he hated Texas. Yet, here he was.

David Ruiz, he announced himself to the clerk. He was too tired to modulate his tone and it emerged sounding more like a chainsaw grating on metal than human.

The old lady glanced up, startled by his abnormal voice—he still wasn’t used to that, wished he hadn’t forgotten his electrolarynx in the truck. As a prop, it came in handy times like this. You’re a patient of?

I’m here to see my mother, Maria Ruiz.

Alrighty then. Her fake smile shone bright as she searched her computer. Then her smile dimmed. Oh.

She’s in the end-of-life unit. He said the words so she wouldn’t have to. His tone was blunt, devoid of emotion, making her wince and look away. He sighed. Too tired to explain to a total stranger. Not that explaining ever truly changed anyone’s first impression.

A helpful therapist, hoping to get him to commit more fully to his speech rehab, had shared the research with him: people cemented their impressions of strangers not by their appearance but rather by how trustworthy their speech, cadence, and tone were judged. Cadence he could control, but tone and trustworthiness? Even with the help of his vocal coach, those were beyond his capabilities. Hospice.

Room three-twelve, came her equally flat reply. No eye contact, no acknowledgment of his humanity—or his mother’s. Simply a dismissal as she looked away and pretended to be totally absorbed in her computer. But her eyes didn’t track with the words on the screen and a thin film of sweat beaded on the back of her neck. His fright-night axe-murderer’s voice scared her. She wanted him gone.

So he left. Funny thing was, it wasn’t all that long ago that he would have been able to charm someone like her. With a sly wink and subtle hint, he’d quickly have them gushing about how they’d seen his televised reports from the war and how handsome he looked and how brave he was, returning to a war that everyone else was leaving, and could they have his autograph?

He still looked the same. Well, almost—no one noticed his prosthetic eye; it was a perfect match to his real one. There were no visible scars now that his hair had grown back. The only external clue to his brain injury was his voice: flat, cold, devoid of emotion or humanity.

Kiss of death for his TV career, but in many ways, maybe the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Funny how everything you thought was Truth turned out to be a bunch of lies.

David stood outside the door to his mother’s room, waiting while a nurse finished adjusting the infusion pump that provided Maria’s pain medication. Typical Maria, she had ignored her symptoms, denied that anything could come between her and her son and the life she dreamed for her family until it was too late.

When he was a kid—after he was old enough to stop believing in Santa Claus, his father’s innocence, and other fairy tales—he’d accuse her of being delusional, living in a fantasy world where she could make dreams come true. Now that he was an adult and had seen more than his fair share of dreams shattered, he wondered if it was more a case of Maria fighting to protect her tiny family from harsh reality.

Hi, Mom, he said as he entered and leaned over the bed to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. The cancer had infiltrated her bones, creating constant pain at the slightest touch.

David, my David, she murmured, her eyes glazed. He thought she might drift off—she was spending more and more of her time in the netherland between sleep and wakefulness—but she gave herself a shake and pushed the button to bring the head of her bed up so she could face him. Have you gone yet? Have you seen your father? He needs you, David. And you need the truth.

The gush of words left her breathless, gasping. He adjusted her oxygen cannula, noting the bruises left by the tape holding it to her cheeks. The mask would be more comfortable the nurses said, but Maria refused it. She hated anything that might impede her last chances to communicate. Maria had always been a talker, just as her son had always been the one to ask questions.

He smoothed out her orange and green crocheted afghan before taking the chair beside her, making sure he was at her eye level so she wouldn’t have to strain to see him. She was the one person who didn’t seem to mind his new speech patterns; she understood the emotion behind his words without needing to hear it.

You must go to him, David. Before it is too late.

The one person alive on this planet who knew him better than he knew himself and she was dying. Yet, she didn’t want him here with her; all she wanted was for him to reconcile with his father. How could he say no to her final request?

But he was merely going through the motions for her. Lying and trying his best to hide it from her. He’d never reconcile with his father, never forgive.

No, I haven’t been to see him yet. The Justice Project attorney is working to get me permission for a special visit this week. He was glad his voice hid his emotion—it had been eight years since he’d seen his father and he’d be happy to never visit him again.

As if she read his mind, she stretched a bone-thin hand to cover his on the bed rail. You need to go. You need the truth. And so does your father.

He shook his head. What truth? He confessed. He took the plea. The prints on the gun were his. We might get him out on a technicality, but that doesn’t make him innocent.

Her sigh emerged as a rattling noise that made him wince and look away. He’d heard that noise before in soldiers about to die.

When did you lose faith, David? You used to believe.

How can you still? he argued. Twenty-nine years you’ve followed him from one prison to the next, dragging me along, fighting a battle even he never asked you to fight. The man’s in prison. Where he belongs. Why can’t you see that?

To his surprise, she smiled. Not at him, at some hidden memory. He’s innocent. I know it. Just as I know you are the one to save him. She turned her head, stared at him straight on. Promise me, David. Promise me you won’t give up on him.

He already had, years ago. Given up on the idea that his father could be innocent, that he wasn’t the son of a vicious, cold-blooded killer, that justice hadn’t already been served. Michael Manning was exactly where he should be: behind bars.

But David had never been able to deny his mother anything. I promise, he whispered. Her fingers tightened on his hand with surprising strength. I promise I’ll keep fighting to get him released.

Not the same as believing in Michael’s innocence. And not promising any future relationship with the man who’d given David half his DNA.

Maria nodded. It was enough. Thank you, David. I know you always keep your promises. She sucked in the oxygen. Her gaze drifted toward the window with its view of the endless Texas sky. I’d hoped to see him. One last time. But...

David choked back a sob, wishing he could promise her that, anything to bring comfort to the woman who had sacrificed so much for her son and the worthless man who’d fathered him.

I know, Mom. He patted the air above her hand, not wanting to cause her any pain with his touch, his words as empty as the gesture. It’ll be all right.

She closed her eyes, eased into her drug-induced twilight sleep, her features at peace, accepting her son’s lie.

Chapter Two

Lucy Guardino loved everything about being a woman. In fact, her favorite photo of herself was taken when she’d been requalifying on the FBI weapons range, firing a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun while eight months pregnant, grinning like a madwoman.

As she slid her new Beretta M9A1 into the paddle holster on her waist and glanced in the mirror to check that it wasn’t too obvious beneath her blazer, her gaze went to the rumpled bed where her husband, Nick, had just this morning reminded her of the many, many pleasurable advantages her gender provided. Oh yes, Lucy loved everything about her life, about being a wife, a mother, a woman...except...

Shoes. She pulled her dark curls back from her face and glanced down at her sock-clad feet peeking out from beneath the hems of her slacks, the white plastic ankle-foot-orthotic brace glaring against the hardwood floor. It’d been four months since she’d almost lost her leg after being mauled by a vicious dog. The surgeons said it was a miracle she could walk again, much less mostly without need of a cane. But the nerve damage—there was no easy cure for that. She’d always need the brace, would always be in pain.

Always have to find damn shoes. During her medical leave, she’d worn sneakers while rehabbing, but today was the first day of her new job, leaving the FBI for a consulting firm that worked cold cases. An office job—she refused to think of it as desk duty—with a team to manage, people to meet and greet, an image to project.

Sneakers were not going to cut it. Neither were her almost-as-comfortable hiking boots.

She’d dressed in her best testify-in-court suit but had forgotten she usually wore low-heeled pumps with it—shoes she couldn’t fit her AFO brace into.

Lucy opened the closet door and was greeted by a host of Nick’s button-down shirts, slacks, and his handful of suits—seldom worn now that he’d set up his own practice as a trauma counselor and wore jeans most days. Even so, his side was much more colorful than hers—and more crowded. All she had were four conservatively cut pantsuits like the one she wore, a dozen blouses in various shades of white and off-white, and a few lonely date-night dresses she hadn’t worn in she couldn’t remember how long.

She pushed the suits aside and found what she was searching for: her black tactical boots. Perfect. Comfortable, the AFO would fit, no problem, and while they’d be a bit clunky—

Mom, no, Megan said from the door behind her. Her tone held all the outrage of a fourteen-year-old fashionista witnessing a crime against style. Drop the boots and back away from the closet.

I need to wear something— Lucy protested, holding on to the boots. Last time she’d worn them, she’d been with the Pittsburgh FBI SWAT team, roping out of a helicopter during an urban combat training exercise. Such fun.

The stab of fire from her left foot reminded her that those days were gone forever.

So, is this Beacon Group an accounting firm? Megan asked, scrutinizing Lucy’s black pantsuit. Or is this new job of yours as an undertaker?

It’s my first day. I’m not sure what the dress code is. And she wanted to make a good impression.

Until now the Beacon Group had functioned as an information clearing house, coordinating efforts of law enforcement agencies, nonprofits like the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and a myriad of volunteer-run groups. After being inundated with requests for investigatory assistance—not uncommon in these days of budget cuts and refocusing of priorities on domestic terrorism and violent crimes—Valencia Frazier, the owner, decided to establish a field investigation team as a pilot program.

Led by Lucy. No badge, no arrest authority, no resources. Yet, she was supposed to build a team that could crack cases years—decades even—gone cold, often without access to the original evidence or witnesses, with only case reports and photographic documentation. Sometimes not even that.

Putting together puzzles with no idea what the picture on the box was, with missing pieces as well as pieces from other puzzles jumbled into the mix.

Almost as much fun as roping out of a helo in Lucy’s mind.

What’s their sense of style like? Megan asked, taking the tactical boots from Lucy.

Lucy had run a background check on Valencia Frazier and her organization, knew their annual budget and closure rates, but the report hadn’t mentioned anything about a sense of style.

How are their offices decorated? Megan translated. What did the people you met there wear?

The offices are in a Queen Anne house that’s over a hundred years old. Valencia’s family—the Fraziers—were among the original settlers at Beacon Falls.

So old and stuffy, uptight? Megan grimaced. Maybe undertaker does fit.

No. Valencia’s not like that. She’s— Lucy hesitated. Elegant. Understated. Audrey Hepburn—but in her fifties.

Audrey Hepburn would never be caught dead in a pantsuit. Let’s start with losing the blazer. Before Lucy could protest, Megan slid it off her shoulders.

I’m not leaving my weapon behind. As a former federal agent, Lucy was able to continue to carry her guns—usually she had at least two on her person and one in her bag. She’d given up her ankle holster and switched her body gun to the sleeker Beretta instead of the .40 caliber Glock the FBI had issued, but no way in hell was she walking around naked.

Megan stepped back. No. Keep the gun. That’s your style—badass, kick-butt detective. Like those black-and-white movies you and Dad love so much. In fact, a shoulder holster would be sexy.

And totally impractical.

Just saying. Wait, I have an idea. She disappeared, heading down the hall to her room.

Lucy glanced in the mirror. She was thirty-nine, would be forty in a few months, and her teenaged daughter was dressing her. But, she had to admit, the blouse and slacks without the jacket did kind of work. She wore no jewelry except her wedding ring and a paracord survival bracelet Megan had given her to replace the one that had saved Lucy’s life back in January. This new one was black threaded through with silver wire that would make for a perfect garrote or lock pick, depending on your needs.

A jewelry box sat on the dresser, its lid dusty. Lucy never wore earrings or necklaces on the job—too easy for an assailant to grasp and use against you—but she had a few nice pieces Nick had given her over the years. She rummaged through them until she found the ones she wanted: filigree silver shaped in the form of calla lilies with freshwater pearls dangling from their centers.

What about these? she asked as Megan bustled back into the room, her arms brimming over with colorful scarves, beads, and a pair of dark purple cowboy boots.

Now you’re getting the idea. As Lucy slid the earrings on, Megan draped scarves across her shoulders, assessing the various combinations.

I always end up dunking them in my food, Lucy protested.

Yeah, too frou-frou anyway. She swept the scarves aside and switched to the necklaces, most of them Mardi Gras beads that Lucy wouldn’t wear even to a costume party. No way in hell was she going to spoil Megan’s fun, though. She could always change in the car before she got to Beacon Falls.

Megan shook her head, discarding each set of beads until she had one strand remaining. It was smaller than the others, the beads elongated and curved, in shades of eggplant purple, silver, and teal. Megan pulled up Lucy’s dark curls, doubling the strand over and around Lucy’s neck until it sat at her collarbone. Perfect.

It did look good. We still haven’t solved the—

Oh yes, we have. Megan held up her cowboy boots. They were ankle high with flat heels Lucy could probably manage without her cane. She was really hoping, despite the doctors’ prognostications, to wean herself off the damn cane.

They’re purple. And turquoise and pink—

Magenta, Megan corrected. The purple matches the necklace, gives a little contrast to your suit, and you’ll never see the teal-and-magenta embroidery at the top under your slacks. Plus, I’m a half size larger than you, so the brace should fit and you can double up on socks for the other foot. Just try it.

Lucy sat on the bed and allowed Megan to slide her foot with the brace into the boot. As promised, it fit. What was even more surprising was the way her daughter had assessed the situation and found a solution. Pride washed over her. Her baby girl was growing up.

How’s that feel? Megan asked as Lucy stood up. She took a few steps. The boots were surprisingly comfortable, giving her injured foot enough support without rubbing against the damaged nerves.

A wolf whistle interrupted her. Nick stood in the doorway, grinning. Wow, you clean up nice. He joined them, kissing Lucy and rumpling her hair. Megan, grab your stuff, I’ll drop you at school.

Megan ran back to her room. Lucy turned to Nick, the weight of the day hitting her. She didn’t need to say a word. He stepped to her, circling his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on top of her dark curls.

What was I thinking? she asked. Joining a group of amateurs?

Amateurs with a damn good track record. He was right. Valencia’s organization had a better clearance rate than most police departments’ cold case squads. But still…

They’re all so young. Tommy Worth, the pediatric ER doc, is the oldest, and he’s only thirty-four. Their tech guy doesn’t even have a degree. Instead, he has a juvie record. So unlike the High Tech Computer Crime squad she’d partnered with at the FBI. Those guys had more initials after their names than a can of alphabet soup—not to mention their genius level IQs.

It will be all right, Nick whispered. You’ll make it work. You always do.

I wish I was as certain as you are. She didn’t even bother to mention the final member of the team Valencia had put together for Lucy: a twenty-six-year-old former Marine MP who’d somehow managed to win a Bronze Star yet hadn’t been able to hold a steady job in the seventeen months since she’d left the Corps.

Lucy had a feeling there was a lot more to TK O’Connor’s story than what showed up in Valencia’s terse summary. She’d done a basic background check on TK, just like she had the others, but it had been a cipher, as if the woman had been living off the grid since her return stateside. On paper, TK barely existed. Lucy could not help but wonder what the former Marine would be like in real life.

You don’t have to do this, Nick reminded her. We can make it with your FBI medical pension and my work. You can stay at home, do whatever you want. Learn Italian, write your memoirs, teach, anything.

Retire. How Lucy hated the word. In her mind, it was the equivalent of surrender.

Hang on. I thought of one more thing. Megan breezed back into the room, vanished into the closet, and emerged with a black leather jacket that Lucy hadn’t worn since her undercover days. It was fitted, waist length, too short to conceal her weapon, which was why she never wore it, with bright silver zippers at the front, cuffs, and diagonally situated pockets.

You’re going to knock ’em dead, Nick whispered as he helped her on with the jacket.

Lucy wasn’t so sure. The jacket still smelled of perfume and cigarettes. And maybe was too young for her? She twisted, scrutinizing her image in the mirror. One good thing about months of unrelenting rehab—other than her leg, she was in the best damn shape of her life. Maybe she could pull it off.

She wrapped her arms around her family, tugging them to her, ignoring the spike of pain when she shifted too much weight to her left foot. What would I do without you guys?

Start your new job naked? Megan suggested, ducking Lucy’s fake punch and heading to the door. C’mon, Dad. We’ll be late.

Got your karate gear?

It’s jujitsu, not karate.

Judo?

Jujitsu.

"Gesundheit," Nick finished what surely was his three hundred and forty-first rendition of the joke. Both Megan and Lucy laughed even as they rolled their eyes and shook their heads at each other.

Megan herded Nick down the stairs, waving over her shoulder. Good luck, Mom!

Chapter Three

The beautiful thing about gravity, TK O’Connor called back over her shoulder as she planted one foot on the railing above the abandoned hospital’s narrow staircase and then launched herself to the wall on the opposite side, "is that she has no favorites.

Reviews for Last Light

[zumbanista · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The first of the Beacon Falls mystery series, Last Light features former FBI agent, Lucy Guardino in her new assignment working cold cases for a private firm. Lucy heads up a team of investigators who eventually prove their worth. Especially hard to handle is TK, the war-damaged female ex-Marine. CJ Lyons writes a thrilling and satisfying tale of villainy and death. Lots of threads come together to make this a riveting police procedural. Be warned that some of the crime details border on gruesome. But the fast-paced writing will have you turning pages right to the end.

[naturalbri-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I must admit, I haven't read any of Lyons' work and was keen to do so, after reading the blurb. I was a bit nervous about joining in, on the series, at the seventh book, but, true to its word, this series can easily be read out of order. I thoroughly enjoyed the book and was pleased to have taken a chance on this thriller. I was instantly drawn to the vivid nature of Lyons' writing. It brought the scene to life and really brought out the triller aspect. It was easy to feel a true part of the story, which often meant staying on my toes and ready for the next surprise. I liked Lucy Guardino. She really made the story and excellent read. I was pleased that the main character was smart, fun, interesting and wasn't afraid to jump in and do some of the dirty work to figure out the truth behind the thrilling mystery. I also liked that she really led the story, taking my mind along for the ride. I felt the pace was brilliant. It was fast enough to really and truly keep me on my toes and keep me guessing at what would happen next. I enjoyed that, and really felt that it brought the story to life. I also liked that it meant I flew through the pages, almost unable to put the book down. The overall story was excellent. I liked the detail and thought put into its creation and the time taken to really round out all aspects of the story, from characters to world details. That really made this story for me and I have to say, it has also won me over for this author. I will be reading more of this series. Overall, brilliant read. I highly recommend this book to thriller fans or those who want to delve into thrillers, but don't know where to start. **I received this book for free in exchange for my honest and unbiased opinion.

[cherylk_44 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My only exposure to this author is from the medical thrillers. So this is also my first time meeting Lucy Guardino. Although, I knew nothing about her or what she has endured in the past, I was able to instantly connect with her. It seems whatever things she endured in the past she was able to overcome and it made her a stronger woman. The partnership between her and TK was a good one. They worked well together to achieve results. The other plus to this book is the killer and storyline. Both elements did not take a back sit to the characters. I hate when this happens. The story would at times flash back to the past but every time it did, it only gave me greater insight into the present. I plan to go back and read the past books in this series.